


Kiss Me Blind (Time After Time)

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Non-Apocalypse AU, Scottish Cottage Fic, Sex-positive ace, The eye can stay the fuck shut they're in love, This man can fit so much PTSD in him, discussion of asexualty, it's like Canadian Shack but with more denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: For the MagnACE archives prompt:I think that as a coping mechanism, Jon REALLY likes being blindfolded. It relaxes him, makes him feel safer (both for himself and others) when he just can't see in any possible way. It makes him melt, and he's perfectly fine with Martin fucking him while he's feeling safe and relaxed.Jon thinks of it as detoxing.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 30
Kudos: 886





	Kiss Me Blind (Time After Time)

It starts like this:

Jon is — he thinks of it as detoxing, though it's harder than quitting smoking ever was. Jon is spacing out the statements and trying to ignore the temptation to _know,_ the power in his blood, the song of his god. He even thinks it's working. It has to be working.

Martin helps, just by being there. Martin stole a stupidly large amount of Peter Lukas's money, enough they won't have to worry about finances for a while, and he's a comfort and a distraction and someone who can do the shop without eating someone's brain—

"That's not what you do," Martin says, firmly, when Jon's feeling itchy and irritable and wrong. "Not anymore."

Jon leans into Martin's chest, pressing his face into the curve of his neck. Martin freezes for a moment, freezes up every time (he's remarkably clumsy with casual affection, something that had surprised Jon until he realized _why;_ now it just makes his heart hurt). But then he reaches up to pet Jon's hair, and Jon feels some of his muscles begin to uncoil.

"Talk to me," Martin prompts after a bit.

"It's — too much and not enough." The words are awkward in his mouth, they don't fit, but he doesn't know how else to communicate it without falling off the _no eldritch powers_ wagon. "I need, I need _something,_ but everything's the wrong thing. Like I'm starving but too nauseous to eat."

He feels Martin nod, and they shift a bit on the old, saggy sofa. Jon keeps his eyes closed, keeps his face buried in Martin's shirt. "It'll pass," Martin says, and shifts his hand to rubbing circles against Jon's back. Jon focuses on the pressure, the warmth, the darkness; it's not the right thing, but it's a good thing, and it helps.

* * *

"What do you think about a blindfold?" Martin asks. He's waited until Jon's feeling better, until they're out walking; Jon doesn't trust himself in the village, but he likes the cows, and Martin relays information about their names and breeds. (Martin has been practicing being a person again, just like Jon has, though in his case it involves talking to strangers on purpose. Jon will catch up, eventually. He hopes.)

Blindfolds. His first reaction is _no,_ but it's not his only reaction, so he sits with it a minute. He has little enough control over most things right now, and he's not sure he'll like giving up more. On the other hand, when he's raw and hungry and drowning in all the wrong information, it does help to cover his eyes, shut some of it out. A blindfold is external, though, and his skin crawls with a brief sense-memory of Breekon and Hope shoving a bag over his head. On the other hand, when it gets bad, it might be safer for everyone if he can't see.

On the other hand, it's Martin.

"Maybe," Jon says, eventually, and Martin nods. "Let's ... let's keep it in mind."

* * *

The blindfold Martin produces is soft and thick, roughly sewn out of strips of old t-shirts and sweaters. It smells like sweat and detergent, and it couldn't be further from a rough burlap sack, but Jon still isn't sure how he'll respond until it's snug across his eyes.

(It's not bad, yet, but he doesn't want to let it _get_ bad, and the idea has been hovering in the back of his head, and—)

"Better?" Martin asks, and tugs the knot to make sure he didn't catch any hair.

Jon can see nothing, even when he forces his eyes open, but Martin is here and he can breath. He breaths out and feels some of his restless energy go with it. "Better."

It _shouldn't_ help, really; he can't distract himself like this, can't read or pace or watch the DVDs Martin brings home from the village library. But maybe that was the problem, piling on distractions that didn't actually distract until he was an overstimulated mess. Blinded, Jon feels strangely free: the craving behind his eyes and in the base of his throat is there, but he can't do anything about it, and he doesn't have to try.

Instead he reaches for Martin, and Martin holds him; they curl up on the couch together, and Jon positions his head over Martin's heart. He's not sleepy, exactly — if anything, he's hyper-alert — but he can't think of another word for how relaxed he feels as he plays with the zip on Martin's hoodie and Martin absently runs fingers through his hair.

It doesn't last, it can't last, and when the pressure in his head gets worse he knows he could just take the blindfold off — he clings to Martin instead, keeps his hands tucked safe under his flank —

"Talk to me, Jon," Martin says, and he puts his hand on the blindfold's knot.

"I'm okay," Jon blurts, even if the words aren't right. "I'm — it's helping."

Martin hesitates, and his "Okay" sounds skeptical. But he moves his hands to Jon's hands, pulling them free of his shirt and enfolding them in his. Martin's hands are as big and broad as the rest of him, and Jon feels relief even if he can't quite find the words for why.

They fall asleep on the couch, like that, and Jon sleeps better than he has in years.

* * *

Again, Martin waits to raise the subject, though Jon's not sure if it's purely out of regard for him. Heaven help them, he suspects that there has been research.

"How much of it is a sensory thing, versus a control thing?" Martin asks, and even manages not to stammer.

"It's...I'm not sure?" Jon admits. "Touch isn't as overwhelming as sight, even with the blindfold on. But I also ... I feel safer, if I can't move."

Martin frowns. "Safer how?"

"Less dangerous."

That gets him a long, firm hug, and Jon leans into it, but he has to add, "I don't know how much you're comfortable with—"

"Well, there's one way to find out."

"I don't know how much _I'm_ comfortable with."

Martin hesitates, but nods, and repeats. "One way to find out."

* * *

They try it when Jon's feeling good, in case it goes wrong. Martin ordered fancy rope just for this, soft white cotton that he coils methodically around Jon's wrists; Jon's eyes are open for this part, so he can remind himself that this is not a wax museum or a dark forest. This is a sunlit cabin with the man he loves, and he wanted this. "All right?" Martin asks as he ties off the ends of the rope.

Jon flexes his fingers. There's a few inches of twisted rope between his wrists, like the chain of a handcuff; he can use his hands almost freely, though it's awkward. "Good. Er. Green, I suppose."

"Are you okay with the blindfold?"

"Give it to me."

Martin ties it on and the world goes dark; Jon reaches out on reflex, but Martin is behind him and he can't get his hands behind his back. His stomach swoops, because he is blind and restrained and there is nothing he can do about it.

There is nothing he can do, and nothing he has to. He can simply be.

"Breathe, Jon," Martin says, and Jon obeys, taking several deep, slow breaths. "How do you feel?"

"Good," Jon says, though it comes out breathier than he'd intended. He arches without thinking as Martin rubs his shoulders, seeking more contact, something to ground him.

Martin chuckles a little and embraces him from behind. "I got that, actually. I don't think I've ever seen you this relaxed." Jon tries to tuck his face into Martin's neck, though his mind's too out-of-focus to feel self-conscious. "No, no, it's good. I'm glad I could make you this happy."

Happy. Is he happy? It feels like too strong of a word, too dangerous to use amid so much uncertainty. But Martin is holding him, rubbing soft circles on his stomach, and Jon feels safe and soft and free. He pushes a clumsy kiss into Martin's neck, listens for the hitch in his breathing before he returns the gesture. Happy. Maybe they can be.

* * *

Jon reads the last statement and they don't ask Basira for more; he spends nearly two days blindfolded and tied up until the static in his head is all but gone. Never truly gone — he's marked, now, and the power will always be there if he lets himself reach for it. But he feels human again, gloriously, pathetically human, and he grins like a maniac when he cuts himself shaving and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

They celebrate at the village pub. It's no use trying to charm the locals, who have clearly identified them as being both mad and English, but Martin's (Peter's) money is as good as anyone else's, and no one remarks that they're holding hands across the table.

At some point in the evening a question occurs to Jon, and they're just tipsy enough for him to ask but not so drunk they won't be able to trust the answers. "Martin," he says, getting his attention so he can pitch his voice low. "Do you want to have sex with me?"

Martin chokes a little on his beer and sets it down carefully. "I thought you ... didn't do that," he said.

Ah. That explains a few things. Like how they'd had entire conversations about bondage without this coming up yet. "It mostly doesn't occur to me?" Jon tells him. "I don't ... my libido is not particularly high or predictable, and I don't feel drawn to any particular people. But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy intimacy with someone I care about, if it comes up."

Martin's face is flushed from more than just the alcohol, but he nods. "Well, that's...that's good. Is there a reason this is coming up now...?"

"Because we won," Jon says. Martin doesn't seem to follow. "We're ... I'm free, Martin, or as close as I'm going to get. Free to be as useless and mortal and blind as anyone else. To go to the pub, and do laundry and have sex and all the other boring, normal things people do. And Christ, I want that. I want all that with you."

Martin breaks into a fit of giggles. "I'm sorry," he says, gripping Jon's hand across the table. "That's a very ... sex and laundry? Really?"

"Really," Jon says, earnestly. "Every part of you."

Martin leans across the table to kiss him, briefly, and there are tears unshed glinting in his eyes. "You're ridiculous," he says, all warmth and affection. "And, erm, I need to stop by a shop before we go home."

* * *

It's different, undressing as they kiss. Martin is decorated with acne scars and stretch marks and freckles and moles, and Jon wants to investigate all of them, and how Martin yelps and twitches when he accidentally tickles him. "Stop that," Martin says, a little teasingly, and when Jon does it again he grabs Jon's wrists and says, "I said, stop."

Maybe it's a learned reflex, by now, or maybe Jon has just grown comfortable with this: being held and being helpless and being happy. His mind goes just a bit floaty as the edges, and his eyes fall shut of their own accord. "Okay."

"Ok—oh." Martin releases one of Jon's hands to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "Is that something you'd like to try?"

"Yes," Jon says, because Martin has been very clear about needing explicit consent. "Yes, I think I would."

Martin kisses Jon, first on the mouth and then peppering them along his jaw and neck. "Me too," he admits, with a heat in his voice that Jon hadn't heard before. Or perhaps he just hadn't noticed. He's pleased to think Martin's been getting as much out of this dynamic as he has.

The blindfold can go on first, now, and then the familiar loops of rope around his wrists; the only difference is that Jon is sat in Martin's lap on the bed. Then a second rope, a more recent addition, that wraps around Jon's biceps and passes behind his back; it's not nearly tight enough to hurt his shoulders, but his keeps his bound wrists close to his front, takes his arms from him almost completely. Jon melts into Martin's chest as he ties that one off. "Good?" Martin asks, every time.

"Perfect," Jon sighs. He can just pet the swell of Martin's belly like this, but nothing more.

Martin runs his hands down Jon's back, from the ropes to his waist, then over his buttocks and down the outside of his thighs. "How do you feel about me fucking you?"

Jon thinks about Martin so close to him, inside him and around him, and it fills him with a diffuse warmth. "Yes. Yes, I'd — I might not come from that, I think, but I'd like it."

Martin kisses him again, and then guides him down to the mattress.

He positions Jon on his side, with one leg bent sharply upwards, and Jon luxuriates in Martin's weight and heat against his back. The lubricant is cold at first touch, but he can't do anything about that beyond a little reflexive squirming. "Sorry," Martin murmurs between kisses, but Jon shakes his head and pushes back into the touch, any touch, every point of contact between them. "Oh. Oh, you like that?"

"Mmm. I like you."

Jon can feel Martin's smile against his shoulder. "Well, that's fortunate, then. Because I quite like you."

The extensive preparation sets off some sparks low in Jon's belly, though he doesn't get fully hard. Martin's slow push inside feels good anyway, their bodies fitting together so close they're nearly one. Martin sighs happily, and leans some of his weight onto Jon's back, half-pushing him into the bed. "I love you," he murmurs urgently. "I love you so much. I could tell you every day for the rest of our lives and it wouldn't be enough."

Jon's able to catch one of Martin's hands in his, and he basks in the words and the weight and the feeling of Martin coming apart around him, even if he's too lost in his own head for words.

Martin lingers afterwards, pulling away just long enough to remove the condom and toss it away. "How are you feeling?" he asks, panting, holding Jon against his chest.

"Green," Jon murmurs; he can't summon any more sophisticated vocabulary. He could fall asleep like this, if it weren't for the itch of lube drying on his skin, and the knowledge he'd probably lose circulation if they left the ropes on. That's a thing he has to worry about again. Delightful.

Martin gives a tired laugh, and moves just enough to give Jon a thorough kiss. "You're amazing," he says, and Jon feels incandescent, like the world could see his love shine through his skin. "Just give me a minute and I'll get us cleaned up."

They fall asleep nestled together, and when Jon dreams, he dreams alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the nonny who prompted this! Title from "Fix Me Now" by Garbage.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Kiss Me Blind (Time After Time)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137129) by [carboncopies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carboncopies/pseuds/carboncopies)


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